Writing my term paper, I am prompted to think of the bodies of monks. The only thing it recalls in my mind is a brown, bald pate. So, my housemate told me about Sharon Olds.

The Pope’s Penis by Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat — and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God